


Adjournment

by jdrush



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A little bit of humour, M/M, Pre-Slash, a little bit of action, a whole lot of bantering, post episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2019-11-11
Packaged: 2021-01-27 18:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21396700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdrush/pseuds/jdrush
Summary: Wherein John Watson learns about trust, arch-enemies, and that Sherlock Holmes is off his chump.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Kudos: 36





	Adjournment

**Author's Note:**

> TITLE: Adjournment  
AUTHOR: J.D. Rush  
FANDOM: Sherlock--BBC1  
PAIRING: pre-slash Sherlock/John  
SPOILERS: The Great Game  
RATING: PG-13, for language  
DISCLAIMERS: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle , BBC1, and Moffat and Gatiss.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This was one of the first stories I wrote for the 'Sherlock' fandom-- waaaaay back at the end of Season 1. (Of course, 'aSiB' disproved all my theories, but I'm still proud of this one)  
AUTHOR'S NOTES PART TWO: I'm slowly uploading my old stories to the archive. This one was originally posted to my LJ in December, 2010.

Adjournment: in chess, suspension of a game with the intention to continue at a later occasion.

The gun pointed at the bomb on the floor never wavered, never twitched, never gave any indication to show how its holder really felt at that moment. Sherlock wasn’t afraid to die--he honestly wasn’t. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, and he didn’t have a death wish, but it didn’t really frighten him. However, it wasn’t just his life he was holding in his hands. There was also John to consider. And that thought terrified him.

He had seen the earlier nod of acknowledgement from John, and knew the doctor was prepared for anything that Sherlock had planned. . .

If only Sherlock HAD a plan.

_*This is all my fault,_* he thought, even as he leveled the gun expertly. _*I’ve put John in danger--again. I seem to excel at that. Must get him out of this mess.*_

But that outcome was starting to appear unlikely. His quick eyes, and quicker mind, had already searched out every escape route, plotted every alternative, calculated every possible ending to this seemingly impossible impasse. Most were useless, and those that weren’t allowed for only one of them to live. If he could be sure that one would be John, he’d follow through, no hesitation. But without definitive proof John would walk out of this room alive, he couldn’t take the risk.

_*Just hold on, John. Give me a few more moments to figure this out and I will save you, as you have saved me. I swear it.*_

Thoughts of his flatmate, his colleague--his friend--were suddenly interrupted by Moriarty’s annoying sing-song voice. “You can’t win, Sherlock.”

“I don’t intend to lose,” Sherlock shot back, his voice as level and steady as the muzzle of John’s gun.

Moriarty sighed dramatically. “You truly are a persistent cuss, I’ll give you that.”

Sherlock gave a bored one-shoulder shrug. “Pot, kettle.”

“You’re not really going to shoot.”

“Try me.”

“I already have--that’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” Moriarty glanced over at John, still sitting against the wall by the changing rooms. “Enjoying the show, Doctor Watson?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked reflexively in John’s direction at the sound of his name, to reassure himself the other man was still safe. It was just a split second, but Moriarty saw it. And Sherlock knew in that instant that he had tipped his hand, and given his opponent an edge.

“Oh, you are just FULL of surprises, Sherlock,” Moriarty chuckled with sadistic delight.

“Do not speak to him,” Sherlock spat out between gritted teeth, angry at himself for such an elementary mistake.

“A tad possessive, aren’t we, Mr. Holmes? You probably didn’t share your toys with Mycroft when you were a lad, either, did you?”

“John is not part of this,” Sherlock declared. “This is between you and me.”

“No, no, I do believe your. . .friend. . . ” and Moriarty’s lip quirked on the word, “has quite a vested interest in this farce as well.” Turning his gaze to the crouching man, Moriarty called out, “What do ya’ say there, Johnny-boy? Any thoughts you wish to share with the class?”

John wisely said nothing. He continued to sit where he had landed, watching the exchange, and coming to the conclusion that his earlier assumption had been wrong. People really DO have arch-enemies, and Sherlock had apparently found his.

And it wasn’t Mycroft.

He hated sitting on the sidelines, helpless. He was used to being in the middle of the action. He wanted to say or do something to help Sherlock, but he was smart enough to know that he was far out of his element with these two mad geniuses. Besides, he had already attempted an escape that almost got himself and Sherlock killed.

No, right now, Sherlock was their only hope of getting out of this alive, and John placed his entire faith in his friend.

Of course, sending up a silent prayer or two couldn’t hurt.

“You don’t listen very well, do you?” Sherlock scolded, taking a measured step closer to Moriarty, and the bomb. “I said, leave John alone.”

Returning his attention to the advancing man, Moriarty cooed, “My, my. . .I seem to have underestimated how attached you are to your adorable pet. Who knew that a brilliant little sociopath such as yourself could have a soft spot for someone so. . .insignificant?” Sherlock’s eyes hardened at that comment, and Moriarty knew he had struck yet another nerve. “Tut-tut, that’s a dangerous failing, my dear Sherlock.”

“You know nothing about me,” Sherlock replied, his voice still calm, and with much more bravado than he was feeling. Moriarty had found his weakness, and was now hammering it with glee. He would continue to use Sherlock’s feelings for John against him, to rattle him, and force him into making a mistake. And why not? It’s exactly what Sherlock would have done, if the roles were reversed.

He knew he had to fight back, hit his opponent where it hurt, but he was working at a disadvantage. Moriarty had been studying Sherlock for months now, creating a catalog of character traits and data from which to choose. Normally that wouldn’t matter to Sherlock--his wits and his deduction skills could defeat any enemy. But Sherlock had been off-kilter since seeing John strapped to that bomb, and with each passing second, he could feel his composure and confidence slipping away. More distressing, he found his laser sharp mind couldn’t form a strategy with all his. . .emotions. . . muddling the works. Emotions he worked so hard to pretend didn’t exist.

If they were going to get out of this alive, he had to regroup and regain his control quickly. John was depending on him.

_*I will save us, John. Just believe in me.*_

“Oh, I know all about you, Sherlock. Or, at least I do now.” Moriarty noticed Sherlock’s features darken at that pronouncement and smiled an evil, victorious smile. Bull’s eye. “Have you told him, Sherlock?” he taunted. “Should I?”

“Damn you,” Sherlock hissed as he took another step closer to Moriarty, ignoring John’s sharp intake of breath. “I’m going to enjoy killing you.”

Moriarty sighed, rolling his eyes at the drama of it all. “Yes, yes, of course you will,” he replied, sarcastically. “We’ve already gone over that. But if you pull that trigger now, we all die. Even him.” He nodded his chin in John’s direction. “Do you really want his blood on your hands?”

_*Not if I can help it, you demented twat.*_

Sherlock knew he was running out of time. He had to make a move soon, but it had to be the right one. Frankly, the wrong move wasn’t even an option. If he chose wrong, he would not be able to tell John he was sorry. He wouldn’t have the chance to tell John ANY of the things he’d been wanting to, things kept secret, things that scared him to even think let alone say.

_*If we get out of this, I’ll tell him. I’ll tell him everything.*_

But to live, he had to push John from him mind. He had to figure out a way to beat Moriarty. He had to find Moriarty’s weakness. He quickly ran down everything he knew about the man. Intelligent, obviously. Duplicitous, most definitely. Confident, arrogant, immoral, ambitious, pretentious, diabolical.

_*Pretty much everything people say about me.*_

But above all, Moriarty was a narcissist, one whose ego knew no bounds. One who would brag to the world that he had outsmarted Sherlock Holmes. One whose delusions of grandeur would be laughable if the man wasn’t so evil. One who wouldn’t know a moral compass if it slapped him in the face. One whose sense of entitlement and continued existence was paramount.

A true psychopath.

The last thing Sherlock wanted was to release such a man back into the world, but he had only one move, and he took it.

He called Moriarty’s bluff.

“If I don’t pull the trigger, you’ll have us killed anyway.” Taking yet one more step closer to Moriarty, his steely grey eyes fixed on those of his adversary, he pronounced, “At least this way it’ll be on my terms--and you’ll be dead as well. Win-win, really.”

And in that moment, Moriarty’s smug smile slid from his face, as he realized he had made a major tactical error in regards to his opponent. Not only had he underestimated Sherlock’s devotion to the good doctor--he had underestimated Sherlock’s mettle. There was little doubt in his mind that Sherlock meant exactly what he said. The self-proclaimed world’s only consulting detective would gladly die, as long as he could take his enemy with him. That he would also take John along was a given.

He would not live without John Watson.

John, meanwhile, was far from idle. He may not have the genius, deductive mind of Sherlock Holmes, but he WAS a trained, experienced soldier. As he continued to sit on the sidelines, monitoring the stand-off, he was silently planning, calculating, plotting: how far and how fast he’d have to run to reach Sherlock; how much force would be needed to knock them both into the pool if Sherlock followed through with his threat; how much time he’d actually have between the pulling of the trigger and the explosion of the bomb.

Could he even perform such a feat?

Or were these really his last moments alive?

_*Don’t think that, John. Sherlock will come through.*_

For the time being, however, the two adversaries in the room were hardly concerned with the scheming doctor--well, one wasn’t, at any rate. Their entire concentration was on the game, studying each other, dissecting each other, looking for that one minute flaw they could exploit. Two master chessmen weighing and discarding moves and countermoves, each trying to outguess and outmaneuver, each waiting for the other to blink. A dangerous game of Chicken with the highest possible stakes.

In the end, it was Moriarty’s sense of self-preservation that kicked in. While not thrilled with the idea of Sherlock alive, he had too many business opportunities lined up--activities much harder to accomplish as a dead man. There would always be time to deal with the pesky detective and his little lapdog, and Moriarty knew his eventual victory--the utter ruination of Sherlock Holmes--would be all the sweeter for the wait.

Yes, live and fight another day was by far the most prudent move at this juncture.

His eyes still on Sherlock, Moriarty slowly reached into his pocket and withdrew a small black case and held it up for all to see. “Stalemate, then?” he asked, tossing the detonator to the other man.

Sherlock effortlessly caught it one handed, the gun still pointed at its target. Calm. Cool. Collected. And John once more found himself in awe of Sherlock's style and panache.

“More like, adjournment,” Sherlock replied, finally dropping the gun to his side.

Moriarty mock-bowed to his worthy--though troublesome--opponent. “It’s been a little slice, hasn’t it? Until next time. . . ” As he walked out the backdoor, he raised his hand above his head, and the laser targets trained at both Sherlock and John disappeared. Once out of sight, he fired off a last parting shot, in his sing-song-y style. “You should tell him, Holmes!” the words echoing throughout the pool room.

Knowing how mercurial--and quite frankly, insane--Moriarty was, Sherlock’s brain screamed at him: RUN! NOW! But while that was the best (and most intelligent) option, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to chase after Moriarty and wipe that grating smirk off his face. Permanently. He had in fact taken a step in that direction when suddenly John was by his side.

“C’mon!” he commanded, grabbing Sherlock’s hand, “before he changes his mind again,” and together, they sprinted from the room.

Once outside, they made their way towards the furthest edge of the car park across the street. As they ran, John’s foot caught in a crack in the pavement, and he stumbled into Sherlock. The sudden heat of John’s body pressed to his, combined with the fading traces of John’s cologne almost made Sherlock’s knees buckle as well.

_*No time for that now!*_

Swallowing hard to tamp down those traitorous thoughts, it was a moment before Sherlock could ask, “John, are you okay?”

Shaky and breathless from their near-death escape, John managed to gasp out, “Been better. You?”

“All good.” Sherlock noticed John’s teeth chattering and realized the doctor’s coat was still lying on the pool room floor, wrapped around the bomb. “Here,” he said, taking off his jacket and throwing it around John’s shoulders. With a wry smile, he added, “Sorry it’s not a blanket.”

“What about you?” John asked, concerned.

“ ‘m fine,” Sherlock replied, quickly. “Adrenalin and such.” His shivering, however, gave lie to his words.

“Adrenalin doesn’t keep you warm,” John noted, handing back the jacket. “Take it.”

“You're the one in shock,” Sherlock pointed out, draping the jacket around John’s shoulders again.

“And you’re not?” John challenged, beginning to remove the jacket. His actions were quelled by Sherlock’s reproachful look.

“Playing doctor now, are we?”

“It is what I’m paid to do.”

“Well, stop it. I don’t need your mothering.”

“Since when?”

“You might find this hard to believe, John, but I DID live on my own for quite a while before you bumbled into my life, and I was just fine, thank you very much.”

_*I wouldn’t be so sure of that.*_ Instead of firing off another barb, however, John slid the jacket from around his shoulders and put it on proper. The warmth was welcoming, Sherlock’s lingering scent, comforting, and John barely restrained himself from snuggling into it. “Thank you.”

The quiet, simple statement of gratitude touched Sherlock deeply. John always was a man of few words. He didn’t need to say what he was thankful for; Sherlock knew it was more than just a jacket. The smile he gave John was wide and sincere. “You’re welcome. And . . . thank _you_.”

John gave Sherlock a puzzled look. “For what?”

“Not trying to be the hero. I know how hard it was for you to sit by so passively while I danced in there.”

“I had faith in you.”

Those five words left Sherlock speechless--a man unaccustomed to compliments, a man more used to being an annoyance to everyone. “You. . .you did?” he stammered. “That . . . is the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

John flashed Sherlock a smile, and chuckled, “So much for my trust issues, huh?”

“Maybe now you’ll fire that damn therapist.”

Another chuckle. “Perhaps next week. For now, we should probably call the bomb squad.”

_*God help me, I love his smile. I love his laugh. Wait, did he say something?*_ “Hmm?”

Gesturing towards the building, John repeated, “Bomb squad?”

Oh, right. The bomb. The one that was still in the pool house. “Yes. Of course,” he replied, as if he hadn’t just been thinking of John’s smile or his laugh or his blue eyes. His right hand slipped into his pants pocket for his mobile phone, only to remember it was in his jacket--the one John was currently wearing.

Stepping over to the other man, he casually reached into the left jacket pocket, at just the moment John had the same idea. Their hands bushed against each other and did Sherlock just imagine that flash of fire-hot desire in John’s eyes?

_*What the HELL are you doing to me, John Watson?*_

Sherlock finally freed his phone, but before he could punch in the number, he heard an exasperated, “Sherlock?”

“Hmm?” he answered, distractedly.

“Gun.”

Sherlock glanced down and noticed John’s gun still clenched in his left hand. “Yes. Of course.” He handed it back to John, who made a disturbing discovery.

“Bloody hell, you had the safety on!” he sputtered in disbelief.

“Of course I did,” Sherlock quipped, as he dialed Lestrade’s personal number. “I had it pointed at a sodding bomb!”

John slid the gun into the right jacket pocket, and sighed a long-suffering sigh. “You're completely off your chump.”

A playful smirk quirked Sherlock’s lips, and he gifted John with a quick wink. “So they say.” Hearing Lestrade pick up, Sherlock turned his attention to the phone. “Oh, good evening, Deputy Inspector. Bad news, I’m afraid. It looks like your boys will be earning some overtime tonight.”

The words were no sooner out of his mouth than a loud explosion tore through the night, ripping the pool house in two. “Fuck!” Sherlock gasped into the phone before instinctively flinging his arms over his head and crouching down for protection.

John, meanwhile, was knocked off his feet, and he crumbled to the ground as gracelessly as the former pool house. Sitting on the pavement and staring at the demolished building, the last two surreal hours finally crashed down upon him.

_*That was almost me.*_

He had come very close to dying tonight. Not an unfamiliar situation for him--it was a fairly common occurrence during the war. And the one time he had faced down death, he had won. But this was completely different.

As he had stood in that room wired with enough explosions to light up Guy Fawkes Night in grand style, he found he didn’t have the usual thoughts and regrets one should have when confronted with their imminent mortality. Things such as wishing he had visited his mother more often, or telling Harry that he really did love her, even if he didn’t love her drinking.

Instead, his big regret was that his last conversation with Sherlock was about something as trivial as grocery shopping.

That his final thoughts would have been about Sherlock instead of his family is something that didn’t really surprise John. Sherlock meant more to him than his family. Indeed, Sherlock WAS his family. Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, even Mycroft and Lestrade--and all the other characters that populated Sherlock’s strange world. They were all part of John’s world now.

John’s life had truly begun the day he moved into 221b Baker Street.

In such a short time, Sherlock had come to mean more to John than anyone else he had ever known. He would go so far as to say he loved Sherlock, was perhaps even IN love with Sherlock--a thought that both terrified and excited him. He had never felt that way about anyone before, but for Sherlock. . .

_*Tonight was a close call. TOO close. Maybe it’s time I told him how I feel.*_

“John! John! Are you okay?” Sherlock called out, dropping to his knees near the startled doctor.

John had been so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t even noticed Sherlock until he was literally right in front of him. “Yeah, I’m fine. You?”

Sherlock nodded. “Lestrade and his team are on the way.”

“Good.“ Gazing at the decimated building, John deadpanned, “Guess he changed his mind again.”

“Well, that’s hardly surprising, given his level of psychosis. Besides, he couldn’t leave any evidence behind.”

“But he did. We still have the detonator. Maybe the Yard can learn something from it.”

“Yeah, they’ll learn it’s a fake.” Sherlock pulled the device out of his pants pocket and showed it to John. “Totally useless. He was just having us on, all part of his little game.”

“Probably bugged, too,” John said, off-offhandedly.

Sherlock closed his eyes and grimaced in disgust. Of course! How could he be so stupid!

_*You know why. He’s sitting right in front of you.*_

Sherlock smashed the detonator angrily against the ground, revealing a tiny microchip among the shattered plastic pieces. “Damn it! He was listening when I called Lestrade. He knew just when to blow it up.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” John commented. “Moriarty seems more the type to wait until the bomb squad was in the room, to increase the body count. Why blow it up if no one would be hurt? Maybe it was on a timer. . .”

“No, this was another one of his stupid tests--and I failed. Damn him!” And he tossed the microchip into the road.

“Sherlock, don’t,” John said softly, clasping his friend’s hand. “You made a mistake. You’re only human.”

No one had EVER said those words to Sherlock Holmes before.

“Mycroft would argue that point with you.”

“Mycroft is a pompous arse.”

Sherlock gave a short bark of laughter. “Eloquently stated.” He looked down at their joined hands, relishing the feel of John’s touch, and the intense warmth spreading through him. The peaceful moment was tainted, however, by Moriarty’s taunting words ringing in his ears:

“You should tell him, Holmes.”

_*Yes, I should. Just not right now.*_

Shaking his head ruefully, Sherlock muttered, “I still should have known he’d pull a stunt like that.”

“Shhhh,” John soothed, squeezing Sherlock’s hand a bit tighter. “You got us out of there. We’re alive because of you.”

“We were almost dead because of me,” Sherlock reminded him. “If I hadn’t contacted that. . .that maniac. . .”

“But we’re not dead,“ John interrupted with a smile. “We’re here and alive and together, and sometimes, that’s all you can ask for.”

And as they sat there, hands entwined, the whine of fire truck sirens piercing the night, Sherlock was forced to admit that John was probably right.

For now.

THE END


End file.
